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My Journey to Jerusalem

  • Yasadhh

    Jerusalem. A city layered in history, faith, and tension  and yet, it called to me in a way I couldn’t ignore. My journey there wasn’t just about geography. It was a movement of the heart.

    From the moment I arrived, the air felt thick with meaning. Stone streets echoed with centuries of footsteps  prophets, pilgrims, conquerors, and seekers. Every corner of the city seemed to whisper a story: prayers tucked into the Western Wall, the golden shimmer of the Dome of the Rock, the quiet reverence of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

    But Jerusalem also challenged me. It’s a city of contrasts  sacred and scarred, beautiful and burdened. It made me wrestle with my beliefs, my assumptions, and my place in a story much larger than my own.

    This wasn’t a vacation. It was a pilgrimage. And as I stood watching the sun set over the Old City walls, I realized something: the journey hadn’t just taken me to Jerusalem. It had taken me deeper into myself

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